


The Four Kingdoms

by Cinn (circadian_rythm), circadian_rythm, Feynite, scurvaliciousbay, SeleneLavellan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Assassinations Galore, Court Machinations, Multi, Political Intrigue, Polyamory, The Evanuris - Freeform, War Themes, if ancient elvhenan were a chinese drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circadian_rythm/pseuds/Cinn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/circadian_rythm/pseuds/circadian_rythm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scurvaliciousbay/pseuds/scurvaliciousbay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeleneLavellan/pseuds/SeleneLavellan
Summary: Set during the times of Ancient Elvhenan, in a world where the Evanuris' hold over the ancient elves is tested by another, and the empire dissolves into four kingdoms.Group story by Circadian_rythm, SeleneLavellan, Feynite, and scurvaliciousbay





	The Four Kingdoms

**Author's Note:**

> this story involves an overarching plot with longer chapters, as well as smaller extra chapters that delve into specific scenes between characters. Thank you so much for reading, and please enjoy!

Prince Aelynthi was born the son of Princev Melarue and their consorts, General Faunalyn and Lord Nithroel.

He was born after the death of Princess Sylaise, his nanae’s first wife, who the world claims his nanae murdered in cold blood.

He knows what people call his nanae. The Great Betrayer. The Black Serpent. He knows that people fear them, that they think his nanae is cruel and calculating and deceitful.

They _are_ cunning. They could not reach the position they have if they were not so. But they are so much more. The world does not know how they make their nails soft, when they touch his curls, or the fondness in their silver eyes when they look upon their consorts, or the gentleness with which they held Selene for the first time upon rescuing her from that barren village.

The world sees every one of Melarue’s smiles as a baring of fangs.

He knows what they call _him_ , as well. The Peacock Prince. Pretty and vain and stupid. The courtiers laugh behind their fans, and praise his beauty while they mock him for it. _How could a cunning snake have a pretty peacock for a son, with no head for war or politics? It must be the influence of that consort Nithroel, the dancer with no stomach for violence._

It does not help that the first shape he learns aside from his own is the bird in question, a fact he tells no one at first but Thenvunin. His childhood friend is utterly delighted, and his enthusiasm over the transformation eases some of the sting.

Word gets around, of course, as it always does at court, and on his next nameday he is given half a dozen of the things as gifts; “the colors reminded me of you” “the bird seems to fit you so well” “for your likeness” as if he is too stupid to see the insult.

He keeps them, in an atrium attached to his rooms, and lets Thenvunin pamper them.

Aelynthi does not mind being like his father, but oftentimes he wishes he were more like his nanae and mother. Consort Nithroel is gentleness personified, the Dove Consort, he is nicknamed, because he abhors violence and works hard to keep it at bay.

But Aelynthi does not have his papae’s demeanor. His nanae’s cunning turns to cynicism and sarcasm in his hands, and his mother’s daring becomes a hotheadedness that makes it difficult to keep his emotions in check. He is a jumbled mess of things, and none of them useful for a prince.

His sister Selene tries to comfort him by telling him that at least no one makes the offhand comment that he’ll start the drapes on fire if someone makes him blush, but Aelynthi thinks this might only be because they think he’s too stupid to use magic.

His magic is subtle; it falls within wards and protective spells, in blood and binding and expression rather than force.

He is kept safely ensconced in the Cloud Pavillion, his papae’s abode, for most of his childhood and then some. He has always lived at court, but he does not wade into its treacherous waters until he is well past his first century.

Before then his days consist of tutors and garden parties, art and friends and forcing his self doubt into the deepest parts of himself as he tries to pluck the bleeding heart from his chest and store it safely away.

—

Aelyntthi is two hundred and thirty-eight years old when he hears Arethfal’s name for the first time.

He does not know what to expect when he is called before all three of his parents, but a betrothal is not it.

His mother is only recently returned from the war, leaving his adopted sister, General Selene, to make the final push and gain a name for herself. Her first battle with her new title and no parent looking over her shoulder; Aelynthi wonders what it feels like to be given that much responsibility.

It is disingenuous of him to think such things, when he holds court with his nanae more often than not, and is in their study looking over missives and laws with them in the evenings. His strengths are not in battle, and so he is not relied upon for such things. Still, it stings.

He kisses his mother on the cheek, and lets her hug him tightly and even ruffle his hair the way she did when he was younger, before he settles himself down on the couch beside his father. The air in the room is…difficult to read.

“Aelynthi,” Melarue says finally, hands folded in front of them, “In order to solidify our alliance with Princess Andruil and her wife, we have agreed to a betrothal between yourself and their son, Prince Arethfal.”

Aelynthi blinks. Betrothal? He vaguely remembers hearing that Andruil and Ghilan’nain had a child, though he thinks it is the first time he has heard the name. Arethfal.

His father places a hand on his arm, and gives him a knowing, gentle smile. “It is a formality, to ensure the alliance holds. It does not mean there must be a marriage.”

Faunalyn’s smile is tense, and she has her arms crossed the way she does when she’s worried but doesn’t want it to show. “He is Andruil’s heir, so he will remain in her kingdom to rule it. You will hardly see him, if you wish it so.” She refuses to look at Melarue, and Aelynthi imagines this decision was heatedly contended.

Aelynthi had always known that his position meant certain sacrifices. His nanae had taught him that early on. He knows that he must accept this, but it does not stop him from feeling that it is unfair. “I don’t want to be betrothed to him.” He says it with enough force to show his anger, but without enough to argue the decision.

Melarue nods, and though their face remains stoic, their eyes are sympathetic.

“I love…” Aelynthi pauses, unsure of how to continue, of saying something he will regret, or confessing such feelings before he has told them to the people meant to hear them. “It isn’t fair,” He settles on, glaring at his clasped hands.

“Life is rarely fair,” Melarue shakes their head.

He knows it, and their even tone isn’t patronizing, but he still feels chastized. And a part of him feels used, in a way he hadn’t expected from his parents. Like he is being sold off. Frustration bubbles up inside of him and settles, hot and heavy, in his gut.

“One day the two of you may raise a child together,” Nithroel continues, voice steady and reassuring. “And you may take other consorts, there is no need to think you must be exclusive unless you wish it.”

“I’ll have to ask his _permission_ ,” Aelynthi nearly sneers.

“Da’vhenan—”

“And when you have no use for him, am I to murder him for you?” The words come out before he can take them back, and even as they leave his lips he regrets them. He knows better, and the pained expression that cracks through his nanae’s mask cuts him to the quick.

“Aelynthi,” Nithroel’s tone is reproachful. “Apologize to your nanae.”

“I…” Aelynthi swallows. He says no more, as he stands and flees the room, his father calling after him.

—

He goes to his studio to escape—and to beat himself up for his outburst. His nanae will play the villain for the world, but for him to say such things is beyond cruel. He wishes the words were unsaid. He also wishes that this betrothal were not real.

He _will_ need to apologize, he knows, but apologies do not come easily to him.

He is not certain how many hours go by as his sits there and stews in his own unhappiness.

“There you are.”

Aelynthi blinks, glancing up to see Glory standing in the doorway of his studio, their arms crossed. Even dressed plainly they seem to glitter more brightly than anything in the room, despite the copius amounts of rare stones and metals present.

“Of course I’m here,” Aelynthi sniffs, turning back to his sculpture. “Where else would I be?” He is not in a mood to be teased, not when he feels more like a bolt of silk being sold off than a person.

“Thenvunin is grieving in the garden like you’d been sent to the executioners block,” Glory responds, “And you certainly do look like you’ve been ordered to the gallows.”

Aelynthi glares, but his concern for Thenvunin settles under his breast, overpowering his own hurt. He…had not expected word to spread so quickly. He thinks his nanae made certain the court knew so he could not try and find a way to weasel out of it. It would be a typical move, it not a petty one.

He was petty first, so he figures he deserves it.

“Let’s go see him then.” Aelynthi stands, and brushes the dust from his fingertips, and makes for the door. He pauses and turns to look at them, “No one is getting replaced.”

Glory raises an eyebrow, “Of course not. A betrothal is just a betrothal.”

“I just needed to say it,” Aelynthi whispers, and Glory’s sharp expression softens a bit as they nod. Their grin returns quickly, however, “It is a shame, we’ll have to reassure Thenvunin for _quite_ a while, I think.”

Aelynthi nearly manages a smile back, as the two head toward the gardens.

—

Selene returns home as the fighting dies down, to enjoy some peace and quiet—and to speak with her brother. Aelynthi is certain that Nithroel called her home with the thought in mind.

Aelynthi knows he has not been…the most graceful in his acceptance of the betrothal. Even though he has agreed to it his dislike of the match is known. Aelynthi has never been good at hiding his feelings, after all.

Selene takes one look at him upon her arrival and suggests a ride outside the city gates. It is an old pastime for the two, to take their mounts through the manicured paths of the royal forest just beyond the walls.

It is no great wilderness, but the air is clear and there is a feeling of solitude one does not get within the palace.

“I suppose he is a hunter like his mother,” Aelynthi murmurs, as the two pause and watch a doe and her fawn cross the path just ahead. Killing does not come easily to Aelynthi, and he does not enjoy it. Necessity meant he’d learned, and his mother told him he was gifted with the bow, but he couldn’t find it in himself to take pride in the fact.

Blood does not bother him, he uses it in his magic and his art, but spilling it for sport makes his stomach churn.

“Would it be worse if he liked experimenting on spirits and creating monsters like Lady Ghilan’nain?” Selene asks, sending him a sidelong grin that makes him huff and push his mount into a gallop.

—

“Your betrothed has asked for a portrait.”

Aelynthi huffs, “It doesn’t matter what I look like, does it? We’re betrothed either way.”

His nanae’s expression tells him he is being petulant. “Please sit for a portrait.” They have tried to be kind on the subject, since the day he managed to find the courage to apologize. It had been a long night, full of tears and secrets and wine, but he thinks they had both felt the better for it.

“Very well,” Aelynthi concedes, “But only if Subtlety paints it.” He knew that one of the other court artists would paint to their own liking, rather than accuracy. Subtlety had a way of drawing out a person’s personality from their eyes in a way Aelynthi respected.

“Do you want me to request a portrait of Prince Arethfal in return?”

“No,” Aelynthi crosses his arms. What use would he have for his painting? Besides, what if he was given a painting and then the person looked nothing like it? What was worse—what if he looked just like Princess Andruil? Aelynthi had met her once, and it was more than enough.

He doesn’t think he’d be able to sleep with someone with her face.

After the portrait is made and sent, he doesn’t think anymore on the subject. His betrothal will happen when it happens, and he knows he can do nothing about it now.

The spring equinox festival takes his mind off any impending nuptials.

He and Thenvunin wear matching outer robes, the pink peonies stitched upon them glittering with morning dew. Glory even deigns to wear a sash with the same design, and Thenvunin seems beside himself with the implications.

Thenvunin has always been under the impression that their relationship should not be public, but is the one who has always been the least subtle about their going’s on. It is a trait Aelynthi finds endearing.

His father graces the evening with a breathtaking dance that has Thenvunin and half of the court in tears over its beauty.

As the night goes on Glory tries to convince Thenvunin to recite one of his poems, and Aelynthi laughs into his wine and watches Venavismi, the captain of his guard, flirt shamelessly with his sister’s chief hunter Elanna.

The music picks up halfway through the evening when Des pulls Selene into a dance, and the laughter and shouting that follows makes even his nanae crack a genuine smile, as they whisper to his father and mother behind their fan in a way that makes them both blush.

Aelynthi feels a need to retire when the world starts to become fuzzy at the edges. Too much plum wine, his favorite, but he’d been unable to help himself. He doesn’t want to pull his guard from the festivities, feeling it unfair, but all he wants to do is curl into his bed and try and sleep off the hangover he knows he’ll feel in the morning.

He apologizes to Vena, who laughs and shakes his head, stealing one last glance at Elanna, before gathering the rest of Aelynthi’s guard.

“Shall we?” Glory skims their nails along the underside of his wrist, Thenvunin at their side, flushed even more than Aelynthi himself, and not from wine.

Aelynthi supposes that sleep can wait, just a little longer.

He excuses himself, and heads from the main courtyard toward the Emerald Pavillion, his own quarters.

Glory is still trying to convince Thenvunin to tell them one of his stories, “Perhaps the three of us could read it aloud, each take a part” and Thenvunin continues to sputter and lectures Glory on impropriety.

Aelynthi tugs on an errant lock from Thenvunin’s topknot, “I think that is a fine idea indeed. What about the one with the bandit king?”

There is a flicker of movement from one of the archways, before a solid force slams into him and he finds himself looking up into Thenvunin’s panicked face.

A long, thin dart is embedded in the carved wood behind him, where he had been standing seconds before.

“Aelynthi!”

Glory and the guards take chase, as Thenvunin calls for more aid, and continues to cradle him and look him over for any wounds.

Aelynthi pushes Thenvunin off and scrambles to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. He can hear yells from the garden, and rushes through the archway, Thenvunin following, calling for him to stop.

He makes it in time to see Venavismi grab the intruder’s leg and pull him off the garden wall he’d attempted to climb—Aelynthi wonders if the elf had tried to shift, only to realize the wards along the garden walls prevented it—before the elf turns and slashes with a curved dagger, cutting deep into Vena’s shoulder.

Vena takes a step back, grunting, as Glory moves in with their blade. It cuts the would be assassin from thigh to collarbone, and the spray of crimson is all Aelynthi can focus on as the elf falls to their knees with a choked cry.

Their eyes lock with his across the garden, face marked with Andruil’s vallaslin and twisted in hatred, fear thick in the air around them.

It is not the first time that someone has tried to assassinate him; Melarue’s heir has always been a target. But it is the first time the killer has come this close. It had always seemed an impersonal thing, something he was told of in passing, in the safety of his nanae’s rooms.

The elf before him is very real, as the life fades from their eyes and they fall forward onto the grass.

He does not think he will ever forget their face.

—

Princess Andruil and Lady Ghilan’nain’s denouncement of the assassin as a traitor comes swiftly, but it does not assuage anyone’s fears.

Treachery’s spies claim that the assassin was Arethfal’s lover and close companion. Something cold and heavy forms in Aelynthi’s stomach and stays there.

Melarue is furious. His mamae demands justice. Selene questions whether the betrothal is truly needed or not “we cannot trust that this was not their intent all along”. It is only his papae Nithroel who seems to pity the assassin.

“I wonder how frightened they must have been,” Nithroel murmurs to himself, expression solemn. Aelynthi thinks back to the fear in the air that night, and frowns down at his clasped hands.

“If they had been _more_ frightened they would not have done such a reckless thing, and we would not be in this mess,” Faunalyn snaps, “A jealous lover of all things—are we to fear every single scorned paramour of the hunter prince?”

“Treachery believes an example should be made.” Melarue murmurs coolly, tracing the serpentine design on their ring with their thumbnail. “I am inclined to agree with them.”

“As am I,” Faunalyn mutters.

“The assassin is dead,” Selene shakes her head, “It should end here.”

“May I bury them?” Nithroel asks, after a moment, and smiles patiently into the stunned silence that follows.

“They are a traitor to their kingdom.” Faunalyn sputters, “Their head should be on a pike. _They tried to murder our son, vhenan._ ”

“And they failed,” Nithroel nods, “And lost their life in a needless endeavor, and left those to grieve as we would have grieved at the loss of our son.”

Aelynthi turns to his nanae. Their expression is unreadable, as it always is. If they do not desire to show an emotion it is impossible to discern how they are truly feeling, a skill Aelynthi envies and one that has always frustrated him.

In the end, the body is given to Nithroel’s care, with strict orders that the grave remain anonymous. Aelynthi does not know where his papae buries the assassin, and he does not know why it eases the hurt in him, to know that the elf is not strewn across the ground somewhere, bones picked clean by carrion.

Aelynthi has nightmares for a week or so afterward, startling awake to images of Thenvunin dying in his arms as poison courses through his veins, and jumping at little sounds in the darkness. Even Thenvunin and Glory’s presence in his bed, curled about him, nearly suffocating, does not assuage his fears.

“Thenvunin could have been hit. He could have died!” Aelynthi finds himself pacing in his nanae’s study, after another night of vivid dreams.

“Aelynthi,” His nanae sighs. “People will die for you. It is an inevitability.”

“I wish it didn’t hurt.”

“I know,” Melarue whispers against his hair, pulling him into an embrace.

“I’m afraid,” He sobs into their collar. “I’m so afraid, nanae.” It is a weakness, he knows. Childish. How can Melarue’s heir be such a coward? _Just like_ _the_ _peacock_ _they name you for_ _, afraid of your own shadow and always blustering, foolish foolish foolish._

Their arms tighten around his shoulders. “I’m so sorry, da’vhenan.”

He isn’t sure what they’re apologizing for.

—

Prince Dirthamen’s surrender shocks them all. No one had expected the prince so reliant on his mother and late brother to come to the conclusion himself. With their army closing in, all had thought he would flee to his father’s lands with his own forces to regroup, not begin negotiations.

Aelynthi does not know how those negotiations culminated in a betrothal, but he soon finds himself on the road with his sister, to officiate as Melarue’s representative.

After his own less than graceful acceptance of the same, he had not expected his sister to be in such high spirits over the decision. But as they travel she can’t seem to stop smiling, and the air around her is pleasantly warm.

“How does it feel to be heading toward your inevitable demise?”

Selene sighs, “Amazing.”

Aelynthi nearly chokes as he turns toward his sibling, expression incredulous. “This is _Dirtham_ _e_ _n…_ Falon’Din’s brother—you know, the one nanae probably murdered in a dark alleyway somewhere?” Whatever the world’s feelings had been about Sylaise, the general consensus has always been that Falon’Din’s disappearance and demise was not unwelcome.

“He isn’t like his brother,” Selene defends, “We met him at that party, do you remember? Before Mythal and Nanae declared official war on one another.”

“I can’t believe you,” Aelynthi shakes his head. It lifts his spirits, though, to know his sister isn’t going into the situation miserable. “Please don’t start anything on fire during the ceremony,” He comments finally, with a grin.

Elanna laughs from behind them.

The officiation itself is short and simple. Dirthamen had read and agreed to the terms long before, and this signing of contracts is simply to make it official. Aelynthi watches the older elf shrewdly, trying to decide what about him Selene finds endearing.

He’s handsome enough, when his features aren’t shifting constantly. Dirthamen usually wears a mask, but courtesy demands he show his face to prove it’s, well, _him_ signing the contract. Still, he seems to find difficult in maintaining less than six eyes. The great General Selene is a bit of an awkward mess throughout it all, as Aelynthi prompts her through the words.

Signatures do not bind as words do.

It certainly gives Aelynthi plenty of ammunition to tease his dear sister with, on the long trek back to the capital. Dirthamen is to stay where he is for the time being, to gather his forces under the watchful eye of the spies Treachery has left in place— _diplomats_ sent to smooth over the transition, until the war is finished.

A full, celebratory betrothal ceremony will not happen for a very long while. Selene comments that she will write him letters, and Dirthamen responds in kind, and hands her bracelet made of starlight as a parting gift and Aelynthi’s sister nearly goes up in flames on the spot.

Dirthamen’s forces react to the fire very differently than Aelynthi or Selene’s.

Dirthamen apologizes, and there is something in his voice that speaks to fear, as the so-named aspect of himself lands upon his shoulder and ruffles its feathers.

“There is no offense taken,” Morwen quickly intervenes, the chief diplomat that would be remaining in Dirthamen’s holdings for the time being. He smiles charmingly, voice calm and steady as he continues, “We were unaware that gifts would be exchanged at this time. I apologize that we have no gift for you in return.”

“Um—um here,” Selene grabs the hairpin from its roost in her thick tresses, and they fall to her shoulders in waves as she holds the pin out to him (lavender jade carved with moonflowers, one of her favorites) still flushed.

“Thank you,” Dirthamen takes the pin, and turns it over to inspect.

Aelynthi merely raises and eyebrow, and finds himself thankful that Morwen had been sent to oversee the negotiations.

Neither of Melarue’s children inherited their tact.

—

The journey back home proves far more eventful then their trek to Dirthamen’s lands.

They are only a quarter of the way home when Elanna turns, eyes narrowed, before warning alarms along the warded supply train explode in bright light.

Aelynthi’s barrier goes up on instinct, as his guard throws up their own and he fights to get his mount under control. The woods to their left erupts with magic and soldiers alike, the vallaslin of Elgar’nan stark on their faces.

Aelynthi pulls out his bow, notching an arrow and loosing. It catches in an enemy’s throat as the elf falls to the ground, choking. His blood is pounding in his ears, but some odd part of him seems to have taken over as he notches another arrow and shoots.

His personal guard form a ring around him, weapons drawn and wards gleaming in the afternoon sun, but they are on flat land with no cover in sight. To the right are golden fields of wheat, and to the left are the woods that Elgar’nan’s forces have used for their ambush.

Selene growls, and shouts something he doesn’t quite hear before she sets the field closest to them aflame. He watches purple fire spread out across dry grass, and the screams of the enemy caught within, before he turns once more to the trees and shoots again.

He can taste ash on his tongue.

Elanna vaults off her mount and onto one of the supply aravels, several magicked arrows held between her teeth, glowing with his sister’s magic. She stands and shoots in one smooth motion, and where her arrow lands, violet flames erupt like a bonfire.

His guards move him back toward the aravels, to try and set up some kind of barrier as they notice that they are horribly outnumbered.

Selene lets out an animalistic roar and sets her sword aflame, slicing cleanly through the soldier before her and sending a wave of heat so fierce the ground begins to steam. The air is filled with yells and screams, and magic crackles in the air like static, and the hair at the back of his neck stands on end.

It is chaos, and through it all, he can tell that they are losing.

His sister sees it too—saw it long before he did, he is sure—as she looks to a rocky outcropping in the distance. “We will push through their flank and regroup there.” She throws her voice, to be heard over the din of battle. “Aelynthi, do not wait for me!”

“I am not leaving,” Aelynthi shakes his head, loosing another arrow. He is terrified, but he refuses to be a coward.

“I will meet you—” Selene stops mid-sentence, as a raven’s shriek echoes across the battlefield, and the pounding of hooves shakes the earth. There, behind them, a force thunders toward the fight, flags bearing Dirthamen’s standard whipping in the wind.

There is a brief moment where Aelynthi fears they have been tricked, and that Dirthamen has come to finish the job his father’s men have begun, before the raven prince’s soldiers cut into Elgar’nan’s like wet tissue paper.

The battle does not last long, after that. It takes a few more hours to collect the remaining enemy soldiers—to heal those that can be healed and sent back to the capital as prisoners, or delivering a mercy blow to those who cannot—and Lord Dirthamen rides forward atop a black dracolisk, its scales glimmering in hues of green and blue beneath the fading light. “I learned of my father’s intent and rode in haste.”

Selene stares at him, taking in his raven armor—and her hairpin nestled in his topknot.

Aelynthi thinks that if she were not drained of her magic, the forest to their left would be nothing more than cinders. As it were she mumbles what he thinks might be a thanks, but the words that tumble from her mouth are a jumble that he cannot understand.

Dirthamen nods.

They ride back to the capital with their prisoners in tow, chief of them Lord Elgar’nan’s greatest warrior, General Victory.

—

As a high-ranking military officer and retainer, General Victory is treated with respect. His imprisonment consists of a guard to watch him in his rooms, and his weapons stripped from him.

His nanae and Treachery question General Victory while Aelynthi and his sister clean up and rest, exhausted from their breakneck pace. His sister has been in a daze since their parting with her betrothed, but Aelynthi has no time to tease. Thenvunin meets him at the city gates and frets, and drags him back to the castle and frets more, until Glory manages to pull him away long enough for Aelynthi to fall asleep—only to wake up with both of them in his bed by morning.

It is decided that Victory and the other prisoners will be held for ransom, and a letter is penned to be delivered to Lord Elgar’nan. If he wishes his soldiers returned, he and his wife will be forced to negotiate.

In the meantime, Aelynthi finds himself intrigued by the giant that had tried to kill him. Kill or capture, he is not certain. He thinks the latter more likely, if Elgar’nan and Mythal wished to negotiate Melarue’s surrender.

He goes with Lensa, his nanae’s chief healer, to see why General Victory refuses to let his wounds be healed.

“I like my scars,” Victory grins at her, “They make me look dashing, don’t you think?”

“You will look far less dashing when your arm rots off from infection,” Lensa drawls, grabbing the limb with deft hands, “Let me clean the wounds at the very least and seal them closed. You may keep however many scars you like.”

Aelynthi watches from the doorway with a shake of his head. He must admit though, the scars _do_ look rather dashing. He especially likes the one just above Victory’s left brow, cutting through the curling lines of Elgar’nan’s vallaslin.

“You are not what I expected.”

Aelynthi raises an eyebrow, pulled from his thoughts by Victory’s remark and his intent gaze. “And what _did_ you expect?”

“Lord Elgar’nan says that your court is a den of snakes. And…” Victory shakes his head, unsure of how to continue. 

“I have heard the rumors,” Aelynthi nods. “That my nanae enjoys violence, and killing those that no longer amuse them in inventive ways. That my sister burns people alive to watch her purple flames dance. That I take anyone and everything to my bed because I enjoy all manners of depravity and that my vanity means I cannot stand those more beautiful than myself if I cannot control them.”

Victory has the grace to look ashamed.

Aelynthi shrugs. It is an old hurt, but he has learned to hold that anger and dissapointment in, at least.

“They…” Victory swallows, then meets his gaze. “They also say that you use the blood of your prisoners to paint portraits of your lovers.”

The audacity of it makes Aelynthi laugh before he can stop himself. He tucks his hands into his sleeves and tilts his head to the side and lowers his lashes, in that way he has been told before makes his eyes gleam. “There is also the rumor that I will sleep with anyone who compliments me. So tell me, do you have any words of flattery?”

Victory turns crimson.

—

Aelynthi finds himself walking the gardens with General Victory often. The larger man does not like being inside his room, no matter how comfortable it has been made for him. It feels too much like a prison, Aelynthi is certain, for a man waiting for the axe to drop.

Aelynthi’s guard is doubled when Victory joins him, but he does not seem to mind it. “It feels like I’m back with my troops,” He grins when Aelynthi mentions the additions, before his expression turns pained and he quickly changes the subject.

Thenvunin is immediately suspicious of the General, and refuses to leave Aelynthi’s side unless he is forced to—in which case he makes certain Glory is there in his stead. “There are rumors that his desires are endless, and he is constantly in the brothels engaging in all levels of depravity!”

“There are also rumors that my nanae cooked and consumed Princess Sylaise to gain her power, so I would take it with a grain of salt.” Aelynthi murmurs.

Thenvunin blusters, and fusses, and eventually decides that he needs to prove his strength against the general in a wrestling contest.

“He is an idiot sometimes,” Aelynthi mutters, watching the two roll around in the sand. 

Glory snickers from beside him, and hums an agreement, eyes intent on the match.

As the weeks go by, General Victory seems to settle into the court like he had always been a part of it. His initial distrust eases, like tense muscles going lax after a long run. He continues to be amazed at how different court is to what he had been told, though he admits to Aelynthi that he finds Melarue unnerving.

Aelynthi shrugs. “I suppose they have that affect on people. I have never seen it myself.”

“It is their eyes, I think. It feels like they can see everything.”

Aelynthi laughs softly, “It was always impossible to lie to them, as a child. Selene and I learned very quickly that it was best to tell the truth and be punished for only the first offense rather than two.” His smile widens, as he looks out at the garden, and turns to the taller elf. “But they have never harmed a person that did not threaten them, and they have never acted out of cruelty.”

Victory shakes his head, before he plucks a plum blossom from the tree over their heads, and tucks it gentle into Aelynthi’s curls.

—

Eventually, Selene goes to negotiate more terms with Elgar’nan and Mythal, her betrothed at her side. Melarue hopes that the capture of Elgar’nan’s greatest general and the sight of Dirthamen allied with their daughter will make the two more amenable to talks, and that the fighting will end.

They are not optimistic over the outcome, but they tell Aelynthi that it is alright to hope so long as you plan extensively for the opposite. Aelynthi must admit, he will miss General Victory and his earnest admiration when he returns to Elgar’nan’s lands.

Things do not…go well, as his nanae fully expected. He does not think that they had planned on quite how spectacularly it would fall apart, however. When Selene returns, shamefaced and alone, they all fear the worst—that Dirthamen has rejoined his parents and broken the betrothal contract.

Selene shakes her head, refusing to meet his nanae’s eyes, her face flushed. “He returned to his lands to continue building his forces. There will be no exchange of prisoners, and no negotiations.” There is far more to the story than she tells, but his nanae simply nods, and tells her that they expected as much from the beginning. Melarue will discover the details easily enough, without forcing their daughter to embarrass herself in front of their advisers.

Aelynthi gets the full extent of it later, when Selene invites him to her rooms to talk, and he watches her pace in front of the couch, the anti-flame wards on the polished floor flickering with every step.

“I confessed in front of his parents, ‘lynthi,” Selene bemoans, dragging her hand through her hair. “And he thought I was lying, and then I…I made a mess of it.”

“Well, at least your betrothed merely thinks you’re faking your affection and hasn’t sent assassins to kill you.” Aelynthi drawls.

Selene pauses with a frown, “ _Potentially_ sent assassins to kill you. We don’t know for certain it was under his orders.”

Aelynthi shrugs. At least Selene’s focus has switched and she’s not longer literally burning a hole in the carpet. His sister slides onto the couch beside him, and he notices the flicker of the bracelet from Dirthamen in the lamplight.

It makes him a little jealous, he must admit. _Why be jealous? He wants you dead and you already have two attentive lovers who would give you whatever you asked for and a handsome general who picks you flowers. You don’t need a betrothal gift. Not at all._

His deepening frown has his sister raising an eyebrow. “Are you that worried that he’ll try it again? The last two assassination attempts were from Mythal. Princess Andruil and her family haven’t even sent any of that malicious propaganda for the last few decades.”

“It is always so nice to know that this time around it’s my grandmother that’s trying to have me killed and not my future husband.”

“She’s not technically your grandmother,” Selene points out. “Sylaise wasn’t your mother after all.”

“Thank goodness. Imagine how awkward it would be to know my adoptive sister was going to marry my uncle.”

The face Selene makes has him laughing so hard his sides ache.

—

Telling Victory of Elgar’nan’s decision is…a difficult thing. The defeat and betrayal upon the other man’s face makes Aelynthi’s heart ache. He is suddenly irrationally angry at Elgar’nan for not fighting for Victory’s release. How dare he treat his greatest general like a broken toy?

Aelynthi is not good at comfort. He doesn’t know what words to say, or how to draw someone from their grief. His nanae would use the situation to turn General Victory to their cause, but manipulation has never been his strong suit either, and he thinks it too cruel to try something like that now, when Victory’s wound is still raw.

So he sits down beside the larger man, and pretends he does not see the tears in the General’s eyes, and waits.

Seeing such a large man seem so small and defeated hurts. He has never seen the General without a smile, not except for the day of his capture, and he wishes that he weren’t somehow the cause of it. But he is, inadvertently. Victory had been sent to kill him and failed, and now Lord Elgar’nan has thrown him away.

By the time Victory’s ragged breaths have evened out, the sun has begun to set.

He lifts a hand and raggedly wipes the last few tears from his cheeks, and turns to Aelynthi with a soft laugh, “I am sorry for showing you such a sight.”

Aelynthi shakes his head. “I’m sorry Lord Elgar’nan is such a horrible person.” _Shit, why would you say that? He probably still respects that bastard, why can’t you be nice for once?_ He places a hand to his face and sighs, “I am sorry—”

Victory’s lips taste like jasmine tea.

—

The first time Aelynthi sees Arethfal’s face is during the final battle of the campaign. Lord Elgar’nan’s forces have been pushed to their limits, and his nanae calls their allies to take the city.

Aelynthi finds himself positioned near the rear, surrounded by a retinue of his nanae’s finest guards. A position of honor, but also clearly a protected one. He knows he is a liability at the front, and that he will be needed to guard their retreat with fresh soldiers, if it comes to that.

He is afraid. It is…difficult _not_ to be afraid, in the face of a city wreathed in flames. He has fought before and he has lived, but that battle had been thrust upon him with no time to think, and instinct had won out over his nature.

This battle has been planned for months. He has marched with his soldiers knowing they were heading toward war. General Victory remains in the capital, though his parting words ring clearly in Aelynthi’s mind, as if he were standing beside him.

“ _My life is yours, if you would have it.”_

He had wondered, after the vow, if Victory’s words were spoken out of a desperation to be useful to someone after being abandoned by his liege lord. Regardless of their sincerity or lack of it, he was not allowed on this battlefield, not against Elgar’nan, when many did not believe his vow to Aelynthi to be true.

Selene is on the other side of their forces with Faunalyn and Dirthamen, in charge of making certain Dirthamen’s forces remain loyal as well…and to make certain that whoever reaches Elgar’nan first will strike a killing blow.

Aelynthi remembers well their last war council, before joining forces with Princess Andruil and her wife for the final push.

“ _No child wants to kill their parent, but the only way we can ensure Mythal’s surrender is to take out her last support. Elgar’nan must die. We must not allow him to be captured by his daughter or son.”_

His nanae is leading the attack at the front, General Glory and General Thenvunin on their left, Princess Andruil and her wife to their right.

He has never seen them in full armor, and the image is shocking, the coiling serpents in black against deep emerald, nearly translucent wards in the form of a great serpent coiling about them and their forces.

Elgar’nan’s city and army burn, and the heat reaches Aelynthi even here, at the rear.

“Prince Aelynthi.” The deep voice echoes in his ear, and he turns, confused, trying to find its source. A tall elf, dark-skinned and dressed in blood red armor, surrounded by snake-hounds.

It takes him a few moments, to understand who this tall elf is.

“Ride well! We have business, you and I, when all this is done!”

Prince Arethfal, his betrothed. _Your lover tried to kill me, and my lover killed them in return._ He wonders about Prince Arethfal’s words.

He wonders if he means them, and if they are a promise or a threat.

He cannot find it in himself to speak. So he lifts a hand, and hopes it is enough. There is not time for further words, as the flames of Lord Elgar’nan’s barrier burst, and the front line charges.

Everything becomes a blur after that, brief moments of lucid clarity among the chaos, the air flashing like a million sun-filled prisms, magic glinting and erupting all around them. In the distance he sees dragons flying overhead, over the walls of the city, and the monstrous, black coils of a serpent that dwarfs them all.

Aelynthi has always known his nanae to be strong, but the sight of their raw power makes him breathless with awe.

His nanae is the one who kills Elgar’nan, in the end.

The evidence of their battle is a circular disk of black glass, two miles in diameter, rock scoured clean by flame and transformed. Standing at the center is their nanae. Their right arm is torn and bleeding, a skeletal serpent wrapped tightly around the limb and disappearing into their armor. Their left arm is black and charred.

At their feet is the nearly unrecognizable body of Elgar’nan.

Aelynthi turns and sees Andruil push through her forces and he hurries to his nanae’s side, Selene beside him, seeing the look upon Andruil’s face. Behind her is her wife, and there, just visible behind his guard, is Arethfal.

There is a chill, despite the residual heat that rises from the glass, rippling in the air around them. For a moment Aelynthi thinks that Andruil will attack; the look in her eyes is murderous.

His nanae’s eyes are cold, and if they are tired, it does not show. “It is done. Bury him if you wish it.”

He thinks that it was does it, their surety as they speak, as if they could flick their fingers and be done with Andruil as well, if they so chose. It is a lie, they all know it, because they are all exhausted, none of them unscathed.

But it is enough to give Andruil pause, for Ghilan’nain to speak, words that Aelynthi does not hear, too focused on the bow in Andruil’s hands. A roaring cheer erupts from the army around them, and Aelynthi looks up and meets Arethfal’s gaze.

“ _Ride well! We have business, you and I, when all this is done!”_

Business indeed. Aelynthi only wonders if it will end in his death.


End file.
